


That's Not How You Make Coffee

by AdamantSteve



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Dancing, Deaf Character, Deaf Clint Barton, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Rehabilitation, deaf Phil Coulson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 06:15:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2762693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantSteve/pseuds/AdamantSteve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“We think you may have some hearing loss. We need to check your ears now that you are awake. We will communicate with you via this tablet until we can assess your level of hearing loss. Please indicate if this is ok.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Phil goes deaf. Clint Barton teaches him how to cope. Hurt/comfort get together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That's Not How You Make Coffee

**Author's Note:**

> This has been betaed by LillyJK. I hoped to have an actual hearing impaired person beta it too but couldn't find a volunteer so apologies for any unrealistic things in regard to hearing loss in this fic!
> 
> This is labelled as hurt/comfort but is 90% comfort and overall it's pretty fluffy. Phil is injured offscreen and has a brief panic attack at one point.
> 
> A note on the formatting of this fic: there are a number of ways the characters communicate in this story: verbal, lip reading, written communication and sign language. I've used a couple of methods to illustrate those modes as best I can so hopefully it's clear what's going on!
> 
> Thanks for reading :)

 

 

 

Phil blinks awake and he thinks he's dreaming - there are various zones of pain about his body, his face feels tight and his chest aches, but there's no sound; no telltale beeps or the low murmur of Medical bustling around him. 

 

He can't even hear himself breathe, or speak when he calls out 'hello?' He feels the word come out of him, the rasp of his disused throat, but the actual word seems to turn into nothing. He calls out again and a nurse rushes in, and she's talking but Phil can't hear that either. He reaches up to pull away whatever it is that's covering his ears, but there's nothing, and the movement causes him pain and to cry out silently. Or not silently, he's not sure. 

 

The nurse stills him with one hand whilst she does something with the other, moments later, Phil realises she's given him something - morphine probably - but she's mouthing words to him slowly so he can read her lips before he falls back into fluffy, soundless sleep.

 

_YOU ARE GOING TO BE OK._

 

-

 

Phil wakes up again, head muzzy from drugged sleep, and he reaches up to see what it is that's stopping the sound. There's still nothing there, just his ears, empty of anything and suddenly useless. He calls out 'hello?' and is less surprised this time at how the word dissolves into nothing, and a different nurse appears and smiles, a man this time, coming over to hand Phil a tablet with some notes on it. 

 

_We think you may have some hearing loss. We need to check your ears now that you are awake. We will communicate with you via this tablet until we can assess your level of hearing loss. Please indicate if this is ok._

 

Phil looks at the nurse and nods, tentatively saying, "Yes. I can't hear anything." 

 

The nurse nods and hands Phil his medical notes from the end of his bed before leaving, presumably to fetch a doctor. 

 

The notes list what Phil had assumed - a couple of cracked ribs that feel like they crack again every time he breathes in, a sprained wrist and some minor burns to his other arm. As he reads, his memory begins to filter in - there was an explosion, and Phil fell, and then he woke up here.

 

-

 

The doctors run him through a gamut of tests and eventually type out that Phil's lost at least 90% of his hearing in one ear, 95% in the other, that they think it's temporary but they aren't sure how long it'll take to heal or to what degree it will heal in the end. "So I might be like this forever?" Phil asks, feeling like he's shouting. They all look vague, and Phil can't hear what they say in reply.

 

He pokes despondently at the tablet, using it to read the other agents reports on the mission to find out what happened after he went down. There are other injuries but his was the most severe, since he'd been interacting with the device which turned out to be a bomb moments before it had gone off. If he'd been any closer he'd probably have died. 

 

The first nurse comes in again, this time with dinner. SHIELD medical's food isn't as bad as most hospital food, but it's hardly a delight, and Phil pokes at his mashed potatoes just as despondently as he had the tablet. He feels like his head is filled with mashed potatoes, and can't shake the sense that if he just pokes hard enough, or jerk his head just right, his ears will pop and the sound will come rushing back in. 

 

-

 

He's discharged the next day, taken home by a level one gofer agent that keeps chattering away to Phil even though Phil has no hope of reading her lips in profile. He feigns sleep, turning his head to look out the window as they drive through the drizzly city to his civilian apartment, only feeling mildly sorry for his rudeness. She's stopped chatting so much by the time they're actually standing in his apartment, handing Phil his keys and then awkwardly saluting on her way out. 

 

Phil hasn’t been here in a while since he usually sleeps in his quarters on base. There are a few knick knacks and personal items here and there but it looks much like it did when he bought it - blank and impersonal. There's a woman that comes by to clean it once a month, so there's not much dust around, but it still feels stale and empty.

 

Phil stands there for a moment, despondent and unsure of what to do with himself. Eventually he decides to make himself some coffee. It's painful even reaching up to get the can of coffee from the cupboard, and his sprained wrist makes opening the thing nigh on impossible, so he gives up and has a glass of water instead, sitting on the couch and feeling sorry for himself. 

 

He knows he could call someone - Sitwell or May, or even Fury - and have them come by or at least arrange some things for him, but then he realises he couldn't, actually, since he wouldn't be able to hear what they're saying on the phone. He could text them or email, but he puts that thought out of his mind too. No, he's Phil Coulson - having a bum wrist and ears that don't work are things he can take in his stride, dammit. He's fine. 

 

He's fine, he thinks as he drinks his water and shuffles around the apartment, feeling like he's intruding on someone else's hotel room. 

 

He takes a shower and then dresses in sweats since he's not going anywhere, and then sets himself up on the couch to watch TV. Someone will be by later with his work laptop, though he's strictly meant to be on sick leave. Til then he lays down carefully, mindful of his ribs, and tries to watch TV with the subtitles on. The subtitles are annoying, but even worse from the angle he's trying to read them at, and he soon drifts into a dreamless sleep.

 

He wakes up later when it's dark outside, unsure of what woke him. It's his phone, he realises, which is trapped underneath him and vibrating from an incoming phone call. He jolts up and answers it reflexively, realising as soon as he has that he can't actually hear anything, saying as much and then ending the call. There are a series of text messages from the same unknown number that must have been received whilst Phil was asleep.

 

_Hi, my name is Clint Barton, I'm meant to help u out w being deaf etc. Not sure if they told u abt me or not. I'll be there at 7. I'll text u when I am at ur door._

 

followed by 

 

_dnt worry I'm lvl 6 agent :)_

 

followed by

 

_I'm at ur door!_

 

followed by 

 

_I guess u can't hear me. I'm gonna be outside for the next 30 mins hope ur ok_

 

followed by

 

_OK I'm gonna pick ur lock I hope u don't shoot me lol_

 

Phil gets up, realising as he does so that his painkillers have most definitely worn off during the time he was asleep, and opens the door. 

 

There's a guy standing there with a set of lockpicks in one hand and a phone in the other. As Phil blinks at him, the man looks up and grins. Phil's brain catches up with him and he recognises who it is: Hawkeye, the crackshot sniper who talks way too much. Phil's had him on missions before and grumbled about his constant comm-hogging, though he's never been able to fault the guy's skills with a gun. Or a bow for that matter. 

 

Hawkeye says something that Phil can’t make out and then his face drops in concern. He speaks slowly so Phil can read his lips. " _Are you ok?"_

 

"I'm fine," Phil replies, even as he's rubbing at his sore ribs. "I fell asleep." 

 

_"That's ok,"_ Clint says slowly, and Phil's not sure, but he thinks he's over enunciating for Phil's benefit, moving his mouth more deliberately than perhaps necessary. " _I'm Clint."_

 

He holds out his hand for Phil to shake, though when he notices the bandage on Phil's wrist just squeezes his shoulder instead. " _Can I come in?"_

 

Phil nods and moves out of the way for him to enter along with the huge duffel bag he has with him. Clint doesn't start saying anything til he's turned back around, apparently making sure everything he says is in Phil's line of sight. 

 

_"Can you read my lips? Or should I write stuff down?"_ He points to his mouth and then makes a writing motion with his free hand before dropping the bag. Phil feels the thud when it hits the floor and misses the sound of it in his ears.

 

"Maybe write?"  Phil's sure he's yelling, but Clint just smiles and nods, bending down to open the bag and pull out a small laptop. He beckons Phil over to the couch and briefly types something before handing the laptop over. 

 

_Hey! I'm sorry I'm late. I brought some DVDs and books about hearing loss, and I’m happy to answer any questions you might have. I can teach you some sign language if you want and also help you with lip reading. Sorry they didn't tell you about me before, I hope this isn't a bad time? I can come back later or tomorrow if you want._

 

Phil reads and then looks at Clint, who's watching him. Phil points to the laptop in question and Clint nods. Phil's rather relieved at being able to type a response instead of yell one at the top of his voice, even if he does have to do it with one hand.

 

_Hello, Clint. No, they didn't tell me about you. I'm sorry I fell asleep. Anything you can show me would be much appreciated. I am proficient with lip reading but I don't know how much I trust myself to rely on it._

 

_I have other injuries, so I'm not sure if I would be able to sign yet, but I'm willing to learn._

 

Phil hesitates handing it over, feeling like he ought to sign off the message or something, despite sitting right next to the recipient.

 

Clint reads and smiles as he types his reply. 

 

_I saw your medical file. We'll lay off the sign language for now til your wrist is feeling better :) I have some things to install in your apartment, I'll show you them in a minute. I also brought dinner, cause I haven't eaten. I brought enough for two!_

 

Clint hands it back and then gets up for the bag again, pulling some things out and bringing them over. Phil inspects the packaging once he's read the message - some sort of lighting/doorbell system, which is meant to flash the lights when someone rings the doorbell. Phil's about to say something like 'that's ok,' or 'I can do it', but Clint's already gone off to the kitchen and has his back turned, and Phil doesn't trust his voice. 

 

Phil follows him and finds Clint pulling plates down from the cupboard and then rooting around in drawers for cutlery. " _Here,"_ he says once Phil's facing him and looking at his mouth. " _Dish up."_

 

Phil's not sure what he was actually planning on eating for dinner, so he's hard pressed to find anything to specifically protest, but it's all so foreign to him - this guy who's practically a stranger suddenly in his space, telling him what to do and now, apparently, changing lightbulbs with the help of a small kitchen stepladder Phil didn't even know he owned. He shakes his head, which has become something of a reflex now, or a tic, dishing up rice and noodles and a variety of prawn dishes onto the two plates. 

 

Clint's finished setting up the living room's lights by the time the plates are filled, and he waves at Phil from the doorway to get his attention before pressing the button in his hand. The lights flicker on and off three times and then he does it again, raising his eyebrows at Phil with a grin. He joins Phil on the couch and they eat in what Phil supposes is companionable silence, watching TV with the subtitles on. 

 

Clint looks over at Phil every now and again, and Phil worries that he's probably making all sorts of undignified noises as he eats. 

 

"I feel like I'm making weird noises. Am I yelling right now?" Phil asks when Clint's gaze is directed his way. 

 

Clint shakes his head and then holds up one finger before reaching into his ear and pulling something out, then repeating the motion on the other side. Two tiny hearing aids that Phil didn't even know he wore are in the palm of Clint's hand as he leans over to show him. Then he puts them down on the coffee table and smiles. 

 

_"Now I can't hear either,"_ he mouths, " _so it doesn't matter."_

 

When they're done eating, Phil clears the plates and takes some pain killers, returning to find that Clint's disappeared into the bathroom to switch the lightbulb in there. He does the same in the other rooms and then invites Phil to try the new doorbell out before he switches it with the old one. 

 

Clint types Phil another message once that's all taken care of, telling him about the variety of accessories for Phil's phone that he's brought with him. They are essentially the vibrate mode of Phil's phone made bigger - there's one that goes under his pillow like a mat, another that's just a big vibrating cushion for the couch and another that can sit on a lanyard around Phil's neck. 

 

He briefly goes over the DVDs and the booklets with Phil, then performs another gleeful doorbell test before patting Phil on the shoulder and leaving with a promise that he'll be by tomorrow with Phil's work laptop and whatever's in his In tray. 

 

\--

 

Phil's alarm wakes him up with its vibrations, and he blinks as he touches his ears again. Still nothing there, he thinks, huffing to himself as he slowly gets up. He's covered in deep bruises still, the side of his ribcage blotchy and sore, and the small burns on his unsprained arm have turned into scabs which sting under the shower. He's thoroughly miserable when he makes it to the kitchen. He tries again with the coffee can, only managing to slide the thing off of the counter and onto the floor, whereupon it finally opens to spill its contents everywhere. 

 

Phil swears to himself, shouting expletives at the stupid unfairness of it all, and then he just shouts random sounds as he tries to bend down to pick the bloody thing up. The painkillers have worn off overnight, so his ribs sing out in pain, and Phil thinks he might be blacking out when his vision starts flashing.

 

He freezes and looks around, realising that it's the newfangled doorbell that's going off. Crap.

 

Phil opens the door and is half relieved that it's not one of his neighbours but equally embarrassed that Clint Barton just heard him yelling blue murder at a coffee can. 

 

_"I brought coffee!"_ Clint says with a grin, holding up two cups and a paper bag.

 

Phil lets him in, awkward and shy after his uncharacteristic tantrum. Clint doesn't say anything, just hands over one of the coffees. " _I don't know how you like it, so it's black."_ He looks so kind, so eager to move on and not mention the fact that he must have heard Phil pitching a fit whilst he was waiting at the door, that Phil doesn't know what to do with himself. Part of him wants to tell him to get out, leave him the hell alone, but the more rational part of him knows he needs help, and knows that this is likely Clint's current assignment - looking after him like he's an invalid. 

 

"Thank you," Phil says curtly, accepting the coffee. He takes a long sip of it and realises the sigh he felt inside most likely came out as a drawn out moan. Again, Clint doesn't mention it. 

 

"Did you hear me throwing a tantrum before?" Phil asks, eyes trained on Clint to see if he's lying when he answers. 

 

Clint laughs, head thrown back and soundless to Phil. " _A tantrum? Is that what that was?"_

 

"I was trying to make coffee and I dropped the thing," Phil gestures towards the mass of black coffee grounds sprinkled across the kitchen floor. Clint sits at the breakfast bar and peers over. 

_"That's not how you make coffee."_

 

Phil laughs this time, shaking his head. "No, I suppose it isn't. Thank you for this," he raises his cup and Clint raises his own to tap it against Phil's. 

 

_"You're welcome."_

 

The bag contains muffins, and Phil's pathetically grateful for his unexpected breakfast. He can’t help but grunt in pain when he bends to get the brush and dustpan from under the sink, which prompts Clint to shoo him away to the sofa so he can take care of it. Phil feels like he's about a million years old. 

 

The thing is, Clint seems to get that this is all kinda hard for Phil's pride to take, and Phil's seen enough of Clint's files to know he's probably as bad as any agent when it comes to medical leave. You have to be a doer to be a SHIELD agent - none of them are very good at sitting back and waiting for anything, least of all their own bodies to hurry up and get better already. So it's a mutual understanding of sorts; let's just do this and skip past the arguments. 

 

Phil watches Clint clean up his mess and pulls out the laptop from yesterday, their messages still on the screen. Phil scrolls down to write a new one.

 

_I hate having to accept help. Sorry if I'm kind of a_

 

He pauses, trying to think of a word that isn't 'dick'. 

 

_Sorry if I'm kind of a grump. I really appreciate you being here. If we could learn some sign language today that would be good, I'd like to have something to focus on outside of feeling like my head is filled with cotton wool._

 

When Clint comes back, dusting his hands off, he reads the message and then types his own.

 

_Are you sure you want to with your wrist still messed up?_

 

Phil nods, even when Clint looks at him with skepticism, so Clint takes him through a few basics, worrying over Phil's wrist every now and again despite Phil's insistence that it's fine. It still hurts a little, but the pain killers seem to be taking care of it. The slight ache the exercise leaves him with almost feels good in a way - a sign of progress. Clint stops when Phil winces at a particular gesture, reaching out to stop Phil's hand mid-movement. _"That's enough for today,"_ he says, rubbing gently, holding on when Phil shakes his head in insistence. Clint smiles and doesn't let go. Phil huffs and signs 'ok'.

 

It's a simple sign, pretty universal, but Clint gives him the biggest sunshiney grin Phil thinks he's ever been on the receiving end of. He rolls his eyes. Clint tugs at his good hand. _"Hey! That was good! Don't roll your eyes."_  

 

Phil huffs and puts his hands in his lap. He doesn't need mollycoddling.

 

Clint gets up and stretches. Phil can't help noticing the stripe of skin that's revealed as he does it, staring and then noticing that he's staring and looking away, back to his bandaged hand in his lap. Now is hardly the time.

 

-

 

Over the next month Clint shows up a few times a week with takeout and more signs to learn, and slowly but surely, as Phil's wounds heal, they strike up a friendship. The simplest way to get used to a new language is to use it, so they talk to one another through sign, lipreading or typing when there's a misunderstanding or a new sign Phil's unfamiliar with. 

 

It's through these conversations, disjointed as they are, that Phil learns things about Clint he doesn't think he'd have cause to ask in other circumstances. Clint has a brother. Clint's parents owned a farm with chickens and goats. Clint's favourite colour is purple. When he tells Phil about being in the circus, Phil learns the signs for clown, bearded lady and knife throwing. 

 

Clint always buys more takeout than they need with the unspoken agreement that the rest will be left for Phil to eat the next day. He's not ventured outside beyond the hallway to take out the trash since the accident, worried about making a fool of himself by missing the millions of different social cues that he never even realised he'd miss. What if someone asks him the time? What if someone's driving towards him and he doesn't hear their horn? What if he needs to ask someone a question? 

 

Phil's aware that he's avoiding something which shouldn’t be avoided, and he's not that sort of man and never has been. But whenever he puts his coat on and determines to go outside he finds himself picking up his mail and then heading right back upstairs, telling himself the whole way back to his apartment that he doesn't need to go out anyway so it's fine. 

 

And then he potters about for a while and hates himself for it. 

 

Clint asks every time he comes over what Phil's been doing since they last spoke, and Phil tells him the truth - working, writing (mostly manuals and systems analysis documents), cleaning, practicing signs and watching the signing DVDs Clint brought. Clint usually nods and tells Phil what's happening at SHIELD before they get into the lesson, but this time he purses his lips and asks when was the last time Phil went outside? 

 

Phil raises his eyebrows and then pretends to think about it before answering. "Last week?" Clint, to his credit, doesn't call him on his obvious lie. 

 

_You need milk,_ he signs. _Let's go_.

 

Phil can't think of any excuse not to, and thinks perhaps it'll be ok with Clint along, so doesn't protest. 

 

They make it to the front door of the building when Clint notices something's wrong, even though Phil's sure he's not breathing too loudly or making any obvious signs of discomfort. "I'm fine," he says out loud, looking at the keys in his hand. 

 

Clint taps him on the arm and signs, _do you want me to go on my own? You can go back to your apartment if you like_. 

 

_Yes_ , Phil thinks. _Please_. But he shakes his head. "It's fine," he says again at the same time as signing it. "Lets go." 

 

The air is cold and sharp on Phil's face, and he wants to put his hands in his pockets. Clint walks by his side on the way, and Phil feels almost awkward at the way he can't talk right now, can't fill this yawning chasm of silence. Usually he'd make light chitchat on a walk with a colleague or a friend, but he just can't, so he walks on. 

 

The bell that usually dings whenever he comes into the small store must go off, he thinks, though it feels wrong not to be able to hear it. The whole place feels wrong - like something out of a dream. Clint picks up a basket and begins to move towards the banks of refrigerators but he stops when he notices Phil's not with him. Phil's frozen to the spot just inside the door, waiting for the bell to ring. A woman squeezes past on her way into the shop and still Phil can't do anything. All he's able to think about is making sure he's not breathing too loud, which is hard because he's kind of hyperventilating. 

 

Clint loses the basket on the way over to cup Phil's face to make him look at him. "Hey, hey it's ok. You're ok, Phil. C'mon lets go home." He tugs Phil out of the store and back onto the chilly streets. They're so cold Phil starts shivering, and his breaths are still too fast and too many. Clint wraps an arm around Phil's shoulders and steers him home, sitting him on the steps inside the building once he's gotten the front door open. " _Breathe_ ," he says, holding onto Phil's hands and crouching on the floor in front of him. " _I'm sorry, you're ok. I'm sorry._ " 

 

Phil shakes his head but doesn't speak, focussing on the warmth of Clint's hands on his own. 

 

-

 

After that, Phil feels pretty pathetic. If he's gonna learn to live with being deaf, he needs to work harder at it, so that's what he does. The next time Clint comes over, they go to the store. Phil sticks like glue to Clint's side the whole time but does offer a quiet 'thank you' to the cashier. Clint grins at him afterwards and Phil feels like it's the bravest thing he's done all year. 

 

After that there's a few visits to the park, and Phil watches Clint doing things like ordering coffee after handing his hearing aids to Phil. It seems easy when Clint does it, as do most things Clint puts his mind to, but when Phil does it the next time and the time after that, he's not too bad either. Clint gives him a little notepad with a Captain America pen that he writes things down on when he really can't work out how much something is, or how much a cab costs, but mostly he can get by with lipreading and the same deductive skills he'd use for anything else. 

 

**-**

 

Phil learns, over the next few weeks, to live with things. There's always more to learn, so Clint keeps coming around once or twice a week, til they're able to talk with their hands fluently. He goes back to work, and Clint signs things to him from across the cafeteria whenever they spy one another, like a secret language.

 

He can’t run operations now, at least, not directly in the field just yet. It’ll be a process to get back in the field, but for now, Phil’s happy to just write up mission plans and backup mission plans and be the best agent he can be in his current state. It’s not that deaf agents can’t work in the field - Clint is testament to that - it’s just that being out of the rota for as long as Phil has at this point means he has to re-qualify on a variety of field disciplines, some of which he just can’t do right now. 

 

It’s after another meeting with the doctors that Phil goes to find Clint to talk over things. Clint’s usually pretty understanding when it comes to ‘deaf problemz’ as he so eloquently calls them in his emails where he commiserates with Phil over whatever issue Phil’s having at the time.

 

Clint's booked into one of the smaller rooms at the gym, so Phil goes down there under the assumption that he's working out, tapping on the door before looking through the window. 

 

The door vibrates under Phil's hand as he peers through the glass, just barely making out the form of Clint in the dimly lit room. He’s dancing. 

 

Phil thinks he ought to leave - this is clearly private - but then Clint stops and sees him, marching right over and yanking open the door with a grin. As he does so, some of the lower notes seem to wash over Phil, brushing over his skin. Clint beckons him in with a grin. _Hi! What's up?_ he signs, bending to turn the stereo down. 

 

Phil stops him, turning it back up and stepping back to sign, _I didn't mean to disturb you. What were you doing?_

 

Clint's out of breath, sweat darkening the light purple tshirt he's wearing. _Dancing. I take out my hearing aids sometimes and dance. Were people complaining about the noise? It gets kinda loud._

 

Phil shakes his head and smiles. _I didn't hear anyone complaining._

 

Clint rolls his eyes at the joke. _Take off your shoes,_ he signs _. Then you can really feel it._

 

It's almost second nature to do whatever it is that Clint tells him to at this point, so Phil toes off his shoes and socks til he's standing barefoot next to a stereo that he can barely hear but can feel like an earthquake. Clint sits down and pulls Phil with him before tugging Phil's jacket off and laying down. Phil looks at him and then does the same, feeling the vibrations pumping through his whole body. It's amazing. 

 

Phil closes his eyes and focusses on the beat, the buzz of it through the backs of his calves and his ass, the palms of his hands on the floor. He wonders what it sounds like normally, wonders if he'd roll his eyes at this music if he heard it blasting from a room in the gym or from a car.

 

When he opens his eyes again, Clint's not beside him anymore but up again, dancing artlessly to the beat. It's not so much artless, Phil realises when Clint shakes his arms out. It's real, just pure movement and joy and life. He worries that he's intruding again, but Clint smiles before he's whipped away by the music, and thankfully doesn't beckon for Phil to join him. He seems content to dance around and let Phil watch. 

 

The song comes to an end and Clint returns to the stereo, fiddling with an ipod before another track begins, and it's different this time - not as fast as the song before but long sweeping waves of vibrations. Something classical perhaps. Clint sits beside Phil again and lays down. Phil watches him take a deep breath and let it out slowly, smiling up at the ceiling at the apparently familiar music. Clint turns his head to catch Phil looking, smiling and then closing his eyes. Phil looks up at the ceiling and concentrates on the swell of sound, buzzing intensely through him. 

 

He's never thought of music as something physical before, a tangible thing that passes through matter. It washes over him like water, warm and cool and hard and soft. Crashing waves and tiny droplets covering him, soaking him. His eyes pop open when he feels Clint's hand slip into his, but Clint's eyes are closed when he looks over and so Phil closes his own once more and holds on. He's glad of the anchor as the music takes him away. 

 

-

 

Phil must fall asleep at some point, only waking up when the lights turn on, realising his hand is cold and there’s no music anymore. Clint’s pulling on his boots and Phil slowly sits up and stretches, moving his neck this way and that, stiff from laying on the hard floor. 

 

_You ok?_ Clint signs, smiling, and Phil smiles back.

 

_I’m great. Thank you for sharing this with me,_ he replies. Phil likes signing to Clint, likes feeling as if they have their own secret language, even if no one else is around to see and wonder what they’re talking about. 

 

_Any time, Phil,_ Clint signs back, using the sign he made up for Phil’s name, the letter P followed by a faux James Bond cufflink check. _it was nice having company even if you did fall asleep._

 

_Sorry! I’ll dance next time,_ Phil signs, realising he’s just invited himself to Clint’s private thing twice now. He winces and adds, _If I’m invited, of course._

 

_Of course you’re invited, you’re my friend._

 

It’s a pretty great day.

 

-

 

As much as he wants back in the field, Phil’s almost disappointed when the medical techs tell him what he thought might be the case: his hearing is improving. It's slow going, and only getting marginally better - loud sounds and base notes managing to get through the cotton wool but not much else at this stage. Still, it's progress.

 

They don't want to give him hearing aids whilst he's still healing so as not to affect the level of hearing he'll have once he's back to normal, if things ever improve that far, so Phil nods and smiles and says thanks (the volume problem isn't so bad now, or at least, Phil doesn't care as much). 

 

He knows he needs to tell Clint, but something holds him back. What if that’s it? Phil’s hearing coming back might mean Clint won’t be in his life so much anymore, and… not that Phil would give up his improving-by-the-day hearing to keep Clint in his life but he’s not sure if he gets to have both at once.

 

The following Saturday, Phil’s lights flash to announce he has company. It’s Clint, dressed in his usual jeans and jacket, grinning and signing _busy?_

 

Phil shakes his head and lets him in, asks if he wants coffee. “No,” Clint says at the same time as shaking his head, and Phil can’t hear him _well_ but he _can_ hear him. He wonders if Clint can tell.

 

_Lets go to the park,_ Clint signs, _we can get coffee on the way._

 

It’s not a problem now, the walking around outside thing, at least not so bad as it was, but Phil’s so grateful to have Clint there, even with the slight hearing he’s regained. 

 

They get hot dogs from a vendor in the park, and Phil laughs at the amount of mustard Clint squirts all over his. _Want some hotdog with that mustard?_ He asks as best he can, even holding onto his lunch. 

 

Clint sticks his tongue out and nudges Phil’s shoulder with his own on the way over to a bench. 

 

When they’re balling up tissues and flicking leftover bread to the pigeons milling about, Clint turns to Phil and doesn’t even have to say anything for Phil to know he knows. 

 

_You have news_ , he signs, tossing the napkin in the direction of a trashcan without even looking. Phil watches it go in (of course) and smiles. 

 

“I do,” he replies out loud. He looks at his hands and then signs, _my hearing has come back a little bit._

 

Clint beams at him, and before Phil knows what’s hit him, Clint’s pulling him into a tight embrace. When he pulls back, Clint’s signing at a mile a minute. 

 

_I’m so happy for you! This is the best news! Hooray! Well done, ears!_ He reaches out to gently brush Phil’s earlobe and Phil feels himself start to blush. He’d been a little afraid that Clint would be annoyed, or disappointed, or somehow feel betrayed, but his joy is infectious, and Phil finds himself grinning in return. He explains what the doctors have told him, the rate of improvement and so on, and Clint soaks it all up like a sponge, asking questions and nodding in understanding. 

 

Eventually, once Clint’s gleaned all the information Phil can possibly give him about his hearing, there’s a lull in their conversation and Phil watches a pair of dogs run across the park, jumping and tumbling over each other in the sun. 

 

“You’ll keep teaching me to sign, won’t you?” Phil asks so quietly he can’t hear himself. Clint looks away from the park and back at him, smiling broadly in amusement.

 

“Of course,” he replies. 

 

-

 

Clint does keep teaching Phil to sign, though he knows pretty much all there is to know now so it’s really just practice. Still, Clint seems content enough to keep coming by and moving Phil’s fingers just so and Phil is more than happy to let him. Sometimes it feels like it’s easier to sign things than say them out loud, even once Phil’s been fitted with hearing aids of his own and he finds he doesn’t have to watch peoples’ mouths so intensely when they talk anymore. 

 

It seems like Clint is much the same in this respect. He signs things that Phil doesn’t think he would say out loud, though perhaps it’s the friendship they’ve built which gives Clint the strength to talk about difficult times in his past that make his eyes shine with sadness. 

 

The man Phil knows appears to be at odds with what other people seem to think of him, with Sitwell and Hill both expressing surprise at the things Phil tells them about how calm and patient Clint is with him. They’re suspicious that Phil might have a crush, and no amount of ignoring their gleeful accusations seems to dissuade them from pushing Phil to ask the kid out already.

 

But of course Phil has a crush. How could he not? He might be pretty clueless with a lot of things but he and Clint both know that Phil doesn’t really need any more tutoring. 

 

Phil’s first mission back in the field goes without a hitch, despite (or more likely because of) Phil’s misgivings about his level of ability. His hearing still isn’t 100%, though he’s more than made up for it with extra visual acuity and lipreading skills. His back up plans have back up plans, but in the end, none of them are needed. There are no problems, and Phil feels ten feet tall when he gets back home in the middle of the afternoon, not letting himself think too much about it as he texts Clint to see if he’s free. 

 

Clint’s there in under an hour, the ceiling lights flashing his arrival. Phil doesn’t really need the lights so much any more, but they’re useful for when he takes out his hearing aids when he’s in the shower or something. 

 

When he opens the door, Clint looks better than ever, though there’s no discernable difference in his appearance; Phil’s just pleased to see him. He stands and smiles at Clint for a minute before Clint laughs and signs, _can I come in?_

 

“Sorry, of course!” Phil laughs, stepping aside. 

 

“How did it go?” Clint says and signs at the same time once the door’s closed and they’re in the kitchen, with Phil fussing over the coffee machine. It feels like forever ago that Phil covered the floor and half the counter in coffee grounds, and he laughs.

 

“It was great,” he says, but he’s smiling so hard that it probably looks like something odd happened during it. “But I’m glad to be back.” 

 

Clint’s eyes flick from Phil’s lips to his eyes, and they sort of stare at each other for a second. Clint’s smile turns hesitant, and he swallows before signing, _how come?_

 

Phil puts down the spoon and the coffee can so he can sign his reply, making sure to form the signs precisely. _I missed you. I wanted to see you._

 

Clint smiles and his fingers twitch a couple of times like he’s deciding what to say before he signs back, _me too._

 

Phil swallows and feels his own fingers twitching before he musters the courage to sign one of the first things Clint taught him.

 

_I like you._

 

Phil looks at Clint’s hands and feels hope slipping when they don’t move right away. 

 

_Like?_ He signs eventually with one hand.

 

Phil looks up and feels relief washing over him when he sees that Clint’s smiling. Smirking, really. He nods. 

 

“Like,” Phil says out loud as he signs it again. “Am I getting it wrong?” 

 

Clint laughs and shakes his head. “No. But I just realised there’s another sign I don’t think I taught you yet.”

 

Phil can’t tell if Clint’s just trying to let him down gently, but he’s smiling so at least he’s not angry. 

 

“Here,” Clint holds the fingers of his open hand to the corner of his mouth and waits for Phil to copy him. Once he has, Clint moves his hand to his cheek and waits for Phil to repeat the action. Phil remembers it from one of the books he studied a while back, but hasn’t had cause to use it since and can’t place it now. Clint catches his confusion and laughs fondly.

 

“Here,” he says again, and this time he signs more, a whole sentence. _I like you, Phil. I want to -_ the new action Phil doesn’t recognise - _with you._

 

Phil repeats the action a few more times, trying to remember. He can feel Clint watching him, knows that his eyes are crinkled at the edges from the way he’s smiling and he gets frustrated with himself til suddenly he remembers. 

 

“Kiss!” He cries in excitement, and Clint laughs when Phil puts one and one together. “Oh!”

 

_Well?_

 

Phil nods and then they’re kissing. And they don’t need many words at all after that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
